Mountain Sanctuary (8 page)

“It’s a start.”

Stella turned and headed back into her workshop to paint, a smile cresting her face.

S
tella finished cleaning her brushes, then checked the plate she’d just painted. Her flowers were vivid and colorful, the creamy white blending nicely with the soft yellows and greens. This was the first application. It was important to layer the colors and go darker with each application so the colors would be rich and distinctive. Satisfied that she’d be able to match the colors to the real flowers just outside her door, she decided to let the plate dry for a few hours then she’d come back another day and deepen the colors until she got it right. After the final drying, she’d fire the teacup and plate in the kiln another time. Feeling good about having this quiet time to create something pretty, she looked around the studio to make sure everything was tidy. Spotting a trunk pushed back under the planked stairs leading to the apartment, Stella wondered where it had come from.

Curious, she went over and tugged the heavy trunk out to open it. Then she saw her mother’s initials on it. With a gush of breath, she realized this had probably come from the upstairs apartment. After she’d suggested Adam move in, he’d spent an entire afternoon dusting and sweeping the place. And apparently, he’d cleared out some of her mother’s things.

Stella had never gone up into the apartment after her mother’s death. And she wasn’t so sure she wanted to open this trunk and ruin what had started out to be a good day.

What are you afraid of? That voice in her head echoed against the beating of her pulse. Stella knew what she was afraid of. She was worried that if she delved too far into her mother’s personal things, she might actually find that side of her mother that remained so elusive and mysterious—that side that had driven her mother to leave a husband who loved her and a daughter who never actually understood her. And if Stella did find something redeemable in her mother’s legacy, then she’d be forced to let go of this bitterness that clouded her every waking breath. That same bitterness that had driven her right into the arms of the wrong man. But it was also the bitterness that kept her going, kept her pushing to make something of her life—in spite of not having her mother around for part of her life. If she let all that resentment go, would her life slowly unravel right along with it?

But you have Kyle now. Yes, she had Kyle, her precious little boy. At least she could be thankful for that blessing. Stella couldn’t comprehend how a blessing could come from such a bad union. How?

And how could she find any more blessings on this day as she sat here staring at this old, battered trunk? Did she want to open this and ruin her good mood? Or did she want to look for the blessings in the small treasures her mother had tucked away inside this box? Holding a hand to her lips, Stella wondered if true blessings did sometimes appear hidden in the folds of despair. She wasn’t ready to test that theory today.

Touching her hand to the aged leather of the old-fashioned trunk, Stella shut her eyes and tried to remember her mother. She saw an ethereal figure standing at an easel. She could remember her mother’s tormented eyes staring out into the garden. Estelle would paint frantically at times, as if her life depended on it. Which Stella supposed it did. Then there were the fights—the horrible fights where her father would sit silent and rigid while her mother ranted on and on about how miserable she was, how she needed her art more than she needed the security of a family.

“Well, you got that wish, didn’t you?” Stella said out loud, pushing the box back underneath the stairs. She didn’t need to open this trunk to find the truth of her mother’s desertion. “Another day maybe, but not today.”

She refused to get all caught up in her bitterness right now. Instead, she wanted to keep this special Sunday tucked back inside her own memory box, complete with doves cooing and church people singing, complete with sunshine and the smell of paint and turpentine. She’d created something this morning, same as her mother had. But without all the chaos and drama that had surrounded her mother’s talent. Her dainty little china plates and cups might not ever fetch a high price in some art gallery, but her china painting meant something to Stella.

It meant she’d turned a corner, that she was willing to risk a part of herself she’d kept hidden away for so many years. She didn’t want to mess that up with nasty, bruising memories of being abandoned. Not today.

Getting up, Stella decided to go back to the house and heat up the pot roast she and Adam had let simmer in the slow cooker all night. At least they could sit down and have a nice Sunday dinner. The rest of the day was like a gift; all of the boarders would be gone and they didn’t have any check-ins until later in the week. She could paint all day long if she wanted.

She turned to leave the studio and found Adam standing in the door, a look full of curiosity tinged with longing etched on his face as he watched her. And in that minute, Stella could almost understand her mother’s intense need to capture images on canvas. Stella wanted to capture Adam, in just this way, standing at her door, waiting and watching.

But she reminded herself as she started walking toward him, how could she capture all the feelings that rushed throughout her system each time the man was anywhere near her? How could she trust those feelings?

Let God paint that picture, the voice inside her head said on a gentle whisper. For once, Stella didn’t argue with that voice. Instead, she said a prayer.
I need Your help, Lord.
It had taken a lot to voice that silent little prayer. But Stella had a feeling that prayer was just the beginning of her return into God’s loving arms.

Adam couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Why did this spry woman seem to have such a firm grip on his battered soul? Why did all of his protective instincts surface each time he looked into Stella’s confused eyes? Maybe because Stella was so stubborn, so full of pride, that she just naturally needed a little bit of nurturing? Or maybe because he was the one starving for some affection and nurturing himself? He was glad to see she’d gone back to her painting. Stella’s art was different from her mother’s. It was more contained and dainty. Her delicate little flower borders and pastel petals falling across plates didn’t shout out as much as Estelle’s birds and flowers. But then, Stella was not her mother. She fought against any part of being her mother.

“How was church?” she asked as she swept past him, the scent of olive oil and kerosene merging with the sweetness of her shampoo.

“It was nice,” he replied, taking in the chaotic tidiness of the studio. He also noted places where he could help improve things—an old shelf replaced here, a table cleared away there. “You should have come with us.”

“I had some things to do here.” She tugged one of the big doors toward him, waiting for him to move so she could close it.

Adam took the other door and pushed it forward. “What kind of things?”

She inclined her head toward the work table. “I…I painted a plate and a teacup.”

He grinned. “That’s good. Can I see it?”

“Not yet,” she said on a breathless rush. “I have to do a bit more to it, then fire it. Then we’ll take a look.”

“Okay.”

He was pleased that she’d had some time to spend on her art. Adam knew that had to be important to her, or she wouldn’t have set up this studio, here in the place where her mother had also created her paintings. Wanting to express his pleasure, he secured the doors then turned to face her. “I’m glad you had some privacy to paint.”

“It was nice,” she said, that brief admission spoken so softly Adam almost didn’t hear it. “I painted Confederate jasmines on a plate.”

Adam glanced over at the jasmine bush. “Good choice.”

“I was just dabbling.”

“Dabbling is good sometimes. Helps us sort through things.”

“Instead of going to church?”

He saw the dare in her green eyes. “You won’t get any argument from me, Stella. You know, there are a lot of different ways to feel closer to God.”

She cut him a sideways look. “So you’re not going to condemn me for skipping church?”

“Not my place to condemn,” he replied, hoping this low-key approach would work on her. She was like a little fawn, all fragile and skittish and ready to run at the first sign of trouble, or at the first sign of honesty.

“Thanks,” she said as they reached the back porch. “I’m sure hungry.”

“Then let’s get that pot roast on the table.”

Together, they went inside and quietly went about heating up the Sunday meal. Their coordinated movements around the kitchen seemed like a gentle dance to Adam. They were beginning to know each other’s habits. He could move around Stella, knowing which way she was headed. He could hand her a bowl and she knew instinctively how to fill that bowl. Adam wondered if she knew instinctively that his feelings for her were changing and growing just like the petunias spilling out from the huge terra-cotta pot near the back door. From the way she looked at him, he thought she knew and felt the same. But Stella wasn’t going to be honest about that, not yet at least.

Still, how could he be sure?

Kyle came bursting into the kitchen. “That sure smells good.”

“Ready to eat, honey?” Stella asked, her smile bright.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyle replied. “Mama, you should have come to church. The preacher talked all about spring and rebirth and second chances. He said we all get a second chance in life.”

“You were listening,” Stella said, going about her work. “That’s good.”

Kyle bobbed his head. “And my Sunday-school teacher, Miss Irene, gave me a picture to paint. Wanna see it?”

“You can show it to me after we eat, all right? We’ll hang it right there on the refrigerator.”

Kyle bobbed his head again. “I like church.”

Adam waited for Stella to give him a look of disapproval, but he was mildly surprised to find her instead smiling down at her son. “I’m glad you like church, honey.” Then she looked up at Adam and her smile broadened. “It’s been a good day so far.”

“Yes, it has,” he said, relieved that she wasn’t angry with him for taking her son to church. And just because he was feeling bold, he leaned close. “The preacher said there’s a gospel and bluegrass band playing on the square tonight. Wanna walk up there later and give a listen?”

“Just you and me?” she asked, her voice grainy with doubt, her eyes wide with surprise.

He smiled. “Uh, yes, just you and me. That is, if that’s allowed?”

She pursed her lips and glanced toward her son. “That might be allowed. Let me think about it.”

“Okay,” he replied as he poured tea. “It starts at six. Meet me in the backyard if you want to go.”

She nodded, then scooted away toward the den where her father sat reading a magazine. “Daddy, dinner is ready.”

Adam stood at the counter, wondering if she’d show up. And wondering if he’d been wise to ask Stella out on an official date.

At five o’clock, Stella knocked on the door of the small office where her father sat poring over the inn’s accounting books. “What’re you doing, Daddy?”

Wally glanced up, a guilty look on his aged face. “Just going over the figures. I thought you were resting.”

“I did rest while I folded linens, and then I checked our bookings a second time and then, well, never mind. Why are you going over the books? You know I handle all of that.”

Wally put down his pen. “Yep, and that’s why I’m going over things. I want to contribute, Stella. I can do this part for you, at least. I kept my own books for years, you know.”

She sank down in a chair across from him. “You don’t need to do that now, Daddy. It’s not that much to do, mostly just putting numbers into the computer.”

Wally stared over at her, his bifocals perched on his ruddy nose. “But it’s just one more thing for you to worry about. You know, I’m old, but I’m still useful. I even know a little bit about this fancy computer program you had installed. If you give me a chance, I think I can take over the bookkeeping around here.”

“But why?” Stella asked, shocked that her father was even expressing an interest in this. “You need to rest and take it easy, remember?”

Wally slammed his fist against the aged walnut desk. “Yeah, I remember since everybody and his brother around here tells me that on a regular basis. Stella, you work too hard and you have always taken on way too much, sugar. I’m telling you I want to contribute.” He stopped, took a breath. “I
need
to contribute, understand?”

Stella heard the catch of frustration in his words. “I’m sorry, Daddy. You did run your own business for years. I guess you might be an asset around here if I’d just give you a chance, huh?”

“Exactly,” Wally said, pointing a finger toward the ledger. “I might not know about cooking pretty meals or taking care of frilly sleeping rooms, but I do know figures. And I can do this for you, Stella. I just want to do something productive.”

“Okay, then.” She got up and came to lean over her father, giving him a hug. “Thanks for offering. When can you start?”

“I already have,” Wally said on a grin. “You keep meticulous records, girl.”

“I learned from the best,” she replied, happy that her stoic, quiet father had confessed his need to feel useful. “And I’m sorry I didn’t think of this months ago.”

“Well, we’ve got it all cleared up now,” Wally replied, his fingers tapping on the desk, a relieved look on his face. “Now, why don’t you go on back and rest some more.”

Stella thought about Adam’s invitation. “Actually, I might walk into town with Adam. He told me about a gospel group that’s gonna play on the square tonight.”

Wally shot her a curious look. “Oh, yeah?”

“Would you mind?” she asked, wondering if her father would disapprove. “It would mean you’d be babysitting Kyle for a couple of hours.”

But Wally surprised her yet again. “Don’t mind one bit. Me and the young’un will be just fine. I can let him beat me at checkers again.”

Stella leaned over to kiss her father’s forehead. “Thanks, Daddy. We won’t be late.”

“Take your time,” Wally said with a wave of his hand. “I know you’ll be safe with Adam.”